Snippets
by Hesiod
Summary: A series of Dragon Age femslashy drabbles. A mix of our favourite women. Origins/DA2.
1. Fanatics

**The first of ten or so little drabbles - some short, some longer. Will upload the rest throughout the week. **

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**Athenril/Bethany. 276 words. **

**Slight AU where Athenril kept in touch with Hawke after their year of servitude. **

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Anders had blown up the Chantry.

_Anders had blown up the Chantry. _

The thought raced through her mind, the full weight of all its implications just barely registering through the haze. Anders had blown up the Chantry.

It was a shit storm in the streets. A thick black cloud of dust and smoke, and the scramble of people and the gurgle of screams. There was looting. There was definitely _crying_. She stepped over a crumpled body, an axe protruding crudely from the back of its shoulder. Apparently, there was killing too.

Athenril walked through the dust, keeping her shoulder to the building and letting her memory guide her as she inched by. It felt like an invasion. There was no one to fight, but it felt like it. She kept a dagger readily clutched at her hip as a precaution.

She was heading for the Circle. It was where her feet were taking her. The moment the blow came, shaking the ground and turning the sky grey with smoke and debris . . . Her first thought had been to check on Bethany. It seemed strange and silly, but not outwardly wrong. Somehow in this mess, it made a whole lot of sense. More sense than any of the chaos erupting around her. She had to make sure she was okay.

Hawke would be fine - and busy with her motley little gang. Her crew would be fine. Even Kirkwall, when the flames were doused and the fanatics stopped and the looters sated, would be _fine_.

But who would check on Bethany? It had to be her.

And until then, she could really care less about the burning Chantry.


	2. The Bard

**Isabela/Leliana. 122 words.**

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"_Leliana,_" Isabela nearly whistles the name, haught with surprise and sudden admiration. She picks up her drink and tips it to the redhead. "Who knew you were hiding all _that_ underneath those Chantry robes. I take it back. You're not boring at all."

Her eyes drape across leather-clad thighs and up to the low neckline of the girl's hugging chestpiece. _Now_ she believes the girl was once a bard. She arches a brow, suddenly very interested in who this Marjolaine was and how long it'll take for Leliana to forget her. She wouldn't mind lending a hand in the process.

Isabela leans back, smirk firmly placing itself on her curious lips. "May I buy you a drink, Songbird?"


	3. The Hanged Man

**Isabela/Bethany. 288 words.**

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Bethany Hawke's bewitched her. She's positively bewitched her. A pirate who doesn't believe in ghosts; a woman who's earned her crown at sea; the quickest blade in Llomerryn - bewitched by a soft-faced little mageling. It was pathetic.

There's an errant hope that the girl will come by the Hanged Man, but she knows that Bethany's not the type. She won't come. Not to this run-down tavern, with its watered-down ale that probably isn't worth the glint of a copper; this little ruckus of a place that Isabela so loves for its squaldid amiability and unforgiving need to be _alive _(the same boisterous way Isabela remembers her crew below deck after successful raids and in excess of wine). This isn't the place for magelings that need to think twice when a lurid fisher goads about his 'rod', with her too-pretty, can't-be-from-around-here face and unsure smile. This place is for thieving, crooked, too-sly racketeers like herself, and Bethany Hawke would be absolutely lost in that sort of world.

Pity.

She has a wicked thought that if the girl _did_ come, she'd have plenty of ways to make her forget where she was or where she should be - or what exactly was more important than being pushed up against the walls of said squaldid building, by a bewitched pirate who _happens_ to have a very talented tongue.

_Blast, it's an appealing thought._ So maybe because she's a bit drunk - and maybe because she doesn't give Andraste's right tit about Marian's disapproval (- and _definitely_ because she'd like to find out the way her name sounds on Bethany's sweet mouth in gasps and stutters), she leaves her empty cup spinning on the uneven table and makes her way to Gamlen's hovel.

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**After writing the second part to Coriander Seeds where Bethany mentions "Have you betwitched me?", I became enamoured by the theme and went off to write a couple of these little snippets. **

**On another note, what are drabbles called when they're over 100 words? I've just been calling them snippets, but I feel like that's wrong.**


	4. Hawke's Proposition

**Bethany/Athenril. 354 words.**

**The one where Hawke tries to hit on Athenril. **

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It's almost painful to watch. No; it's definitely paintful to watch. Hawke was . . . failing, at whatever this was. This filmsy attempt at seducing their employer or at least planting the seed that Athenril should dive into bed with her.

Bethany had heard her fair share of the lurid ideas floating through Hawke's mind every time they'd returned to Gamlen's. Of course, Hawke was in no means shy about asking for what she wanted – except that she was used to conquest, not cold, awkward, elven rejection. And that's exactly where this was headed.

Bethany looks between the pair, feeling the uncomfortable stir of second-hand embarrassment.

"Come again?" Athenril asks, her arms folding over her chest as she stops to look back at Hawke – like she's some mangly dog who had barked instead of spoken.

The lopsided grin on Hawke's face flickers, a strained chuckle choking itself out. "I – uhh, if you want to, I mean. Because I wouldn't mind. I'd actually like it too, having some relief. Our year is almost over and I think we've had a good run." The grin regains some of its confidence. "You're good looking and I'm good looking, and I swear I'm better in bed than I am at picking locks –"

"You think I'll sleep with you?" Athenril interrupts, raising one cool brow. Her face betrays no emotion, but Bethany knows that look well. "And you choose to present your proposition . . . in this manner?"

"Well. . ." Hawke's features furrow. Clearly, this is not how it usually goes. Confusion ensues. "Yes?" she tries again.

Athenril blinks, letting the moment seep in. If watching this exchange was painful earlier, it was moreso now. "First of all, I don't sleep with my employees. Second of all, your proposition lacks luster and I can only assume its an extension of your skillset." Bethany bites back her giggle as she watches Hawke's face crush into one of incredulity. "And third," Athenril casts a look to Bethany, a flicker of a smirk pulling the corner of her lip. "If I was going to sleep with a Hawke, my dear - I'm afraid you wouldn't be my first choice."

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**Some good ol' Bethenril. I do enjoy clueless, cocky Hawke. **

**I have a whole bunch of flashfics saved to my phone. Will get around to uploading them if these sleepless nights ensue. **


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